


love, love is a verb

by NoRationalThoughtRequired



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cameos by Ciri and Vesemir, Feelings Realization, Geralt Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Geraskier Week, Introspection, M/M, so many metaphors, two soft boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22782712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoRationalThoughtRequired/pseuds/NoRationalThoughtRequired
Summary: It comes upon Geralt gradually, love does, building slowly and steadily until he realizes that Jaskier has created a place in his heart and is utterly indispensable to him. He gets there eventually, that’s what matters.Written for Geraskier Week, Day 5: Realization.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 327





	love, love is a verb

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, new fandom! *waves* It's been absolutely ages since I've written anything more than a short ficlet, but I love these two so very much, and when I saw that the prompt for Geraskier Week Day 5 was "Realization," I knew I'd have to try to write something for it. I am soft, Geralt is soft, and this fic is EXTREMELY soft. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title is from "Teardrop" by Massive Attack.

Love, Geralt thinks, is nothing like the stories and the songs.

Not that he pays much attention to the stories and the songs--at least, he didn’t pay much attention _before_ ; now, well, much has changed over the years; priorities have shifted, realigned, and many of those things for which he had once believed he would never spare a care have unexpectedly asserted themselves as matters of great import and consequence--but it is impossible to walk the world of men for more than a century and not gain at least a passing familiarity with the myriad ways in which humanity seeks to cope with their emotions, their entanglements, their very existences: by putting them to rhyme, to verse, to tune, at some turns jaunty, at others mournful.

So he’s heard the stories, and he’s heard the songs, and they’ve got it all wrong, really. They’re not at all reflective of his experience.

(And how wondrous it is indeed: that he, a Witcher--once a man but now, not quite--should have experience in _love_. Truly, the universe is mysterious and unpredictable. And also, he whispers to himself in the most remote reaches of his mind, delightful.)

Love is not a thunderclap, nor a lightning strike. The earth doesn’t shake, the heavens don’t part. There’s no meeting of eyes across a dank and dusty tavern accompanied by trumpets blaring and a celestial choir singing, and there’s certainly not an accidental brushing of fingertips in a crowded market that ignites a frisson, a jolt that hints at passion to come. There’s no sign that says, in bold dramatic letters, _here he is, the one you’ve needed, although you have not even been seeking_.

It would have been easier if there was.

_Easier_ , Geralt muses, but maybe not _better_. Their journey has been one of twists and turns, waiting and wishing, false starts and second chances and separations that were agony at the time, but have somehow, beyond all reason, led here, to bliss.

Love, in Geralt’s experience, comes slowly, like the morning mist rolling into the valley. Inexorable, but meandering. It takes its time, there’s no rush, no hurry, it knows it’s going to get there, to where it needs to be. The foundation needs a while to set, the support structure comes together piece by piece by painstaking piece. And sometimes years pass with seemingly no progress, a stalled endeavour, teetering on the precipice of abandonment, but really it’s building, imperceptibly, lurking in the background, hidden behind a thousand barbed words that gradually lose their sharp edges, waiting, _waiting_ , for the time to be right.

He doesn’t notice it, as it’s happening. A bit worrisome for a Witcher, one who relies upon the keenness of his observational skills in order to stay alive, but their senses are trained outwards, not to matters of the heart, so he supposes he can be forgiven for the fact that it takes him more than two decades to realize that the feeling that he feels deep in his chest--occasionally sending his heart into a syncopated rhythm, calling out to another to join it in its dance--whenever he so much as _thinks_ of Jaskier is _love_.

For all that Jaskier is an absolute force of nature, loud and brash and always drawing every eye in every room, falling into love with him is quiet, a whisper rather than a shout. There’s a shared adventure and a song that becomes ubiquitous and somewhere in the following days there’s a knock at the door of his heart and when he opens it just a crack, there’s bright blue eyes smiling at him with a soft _hello. won’t you let me in?_ and Geralt, well, he turns away, he continues down the Path, but he doesn’t shut the door, he never really does get around to saying no, and it just builds from there, sneaking up on him as the years pass until he can no longer deny it.

Love, for him, for _them_ , is companionship and camaraderie, something Geralt never wanted nor needed until he inexplicably found himself longing for it, craving it, in the days and the weeks and the months that their paths diverged.

(It’s listening to the chirping of crickets and Roach’s occasional snuffles while camping out under the stars in the middle-of-absolute-nowhere Temeria and wishing he was hearing Jaskier spin some ridiculous yarn about a long-ago prank on a professor at Oxenfurt instead.)

It’s returning from fulfilling a contract, bloodied and weary, and having someone there to fuss and flitter and soothe aches and pains, all while Jaskier grumbles that his appointed vantage point tucked away in the bushes (safe, as safe as Geralt can keep him, with the lives they lead and Jaskier’s flat refusal to be left behind at inns and taverns) was not ideal for proper, and accurate, observation-- _it was too dark, too dark to see anything, Geralt! Nothing but roars and shrieks and more legs than any one creature should have!_ \--but he embellishes the details and immediately applies himself to setting them to epic verse anyway, and his efforts are sung far and wide and become legend.

(It’s the way Jaskier’s fingers sliding through his hair while he soaks in a steaming hot tub chase away the post-hunt headache better than any Witcher’s potion or mage’s concoction ever could.)

It’s grabbing the neck of Jaskier’s doublet and holding him back when he jumps out of his chair in a smelly tavern, spitting and snarling, ready to throw everything from his fists to his tankard of ale to his lute at the townspeople who cling to their prejudices, their outdated notions, their persistence in believing that, Geralt’s delivery of the town from a rampaging alghoul notwithstanding, he’ll never be more than a monster himself, the _Butcher of Blaviken forever and evermore_.

(It’s the warmth that spreads through him, unbidden, as Jaskier mutters about it all the way out of town, the dismay in his voice, his plaintive _why can’t they just see you?_ )

(The _as I see you_ remains unsaid, but not unheard.)

And then. _And then_.

It’s the first kiss after more than ten years of waiting and wishing and _wanting_ , something clicking into place, as if the universe is saying _yes, yes this is it, this is right_ , and it’s every kiss thereafter, thousands of kisses in thousands of nondescript inns across the Continent, kisses as the sun’s rays peak over the horizon, kisses in the gleaming twilight, _thank the gods you made it through_ kisses, _welcome back welcome home_ kisses, _I’ve missed you so_ kisses, _I thought you were lost to me_ kisses, playful kisses on the tips of fingers and noses, absentminded kisses dropped on the crown of a head, kisses with purpose, kisses with intent, kisses for the sake of kissing and nothing more, and also everything more. It’s the way Geralt’s stomach does a funny little flip after that first kiss, a flip that never goes away, a flip that he feels again this very morning when, after kissing Jaskier awake, he watches in fond bemusement as Jaskier immediately pulls the furs back over his head and burrows down into the depths of their bed while Ciri clatters about in the hallway with her practice sword and Vesemir’s low rumble calls them all to training.

It’s Jaskier’s hands, steady and sure, plucking the strings of his lute with dexterity and then playing Geralt with equal, if not greater, proficiency, leaving him breathless and beguiled, raising him to new heights and then falling over the edge with him, beside him. It’s the way those hands curl around the hilt of a dagger, reluctant to use it but recognizing that, sometimes, it’s necessary. It’s those hands being _far_ better suited to massaging feeling back into exhausted limbs, trailing tenderness in their wake. It’s the way they bring peace, the way they trace _I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U_ over Geralt’s bare back when speaking the words would not be welcomed.

(Geralt pretends not to recognize the way those eight letters feel spelled out against his skin.)

(He’s so very tired of pretending.)

After that fateful day on the mountain, it’s replaying his careless words over and over and over in his head, as if on a loop, punishing himself with remembrances of how Jaskier hid how his heart was breaking until he was no longer physically able to do so. It’s traveling from contract to contract and then on to Cintra with nothing but the plodding of Roach’s hooves as background while he mentally composes apology upon apology, endlessly revising and rewriting, wishing he had but half of Jaskier’s ability with words and hoping upon desperate hope that, someday, he’ll get a chance to use those words, as imperfect as they may be, that they’ll see each other again and that the final words in their story won’t be ones of bitterness. It’s the overwhelming feeling of relief when he and Ciri stumble upon Jaskier in a nowhere inn still too close to the Nilfgaardian troops for comfort, and he clutches Jaskier to him, dares Destiny itself to tear them apart, for it will not succeed, and Jaskier whispers against his neck _I’m still so angry with you, but I’m so happy that wasn’t the end for us_ , and Geralt presses their foreheads together and whispers back _I was a fool_ and _let me spend the rest of our days proving that you are the best part of me_ and Jaskier can’t quite stifle a sob as he breathes against Geralt’s lips _yes, yes alright, then_.

Love is passion and love is mundane. It’s feverish touches in their shared bedroll long after Ciri has fallen asleep and the dying firelight flashes in Jaskier’s eyes, as bright and mischievous now as they were more than twenty years previous. It’s whispered plans for the future, Ciri snuggled between them after a nightmare, Jaskier’s clever fingers alternating between stroking her hair and tangling in Geralt’s. Geralt mentions taking her to Kaer Morhen and he barely waits for Jaskier’s nod of acknowledgement before he’s saying _and you, you too, come with us?_ And his heart dances when a slow grin blooms on Jaskier’s face, his _always, I’ll always come with you_ nearly lost in their kiss.

And now here they are. Winter howls outside the walls of Kaer Morhen, and it’s a mismatched family that they make, but a family nonetheless: four curmudgeonly Witchers of varying degrees of cynicism and world-weariness; Yennefer, still not fully recovered from the aftermath of Sodden, but well enough to portal in and out, stopping by to give beginning lessons in sorcery to Ciri, needle Jaskier and be needled by Jaskier, albeit in far more gentle way than they ever had before, and bestow significant and knowing glances upon Geralt before departing when a fellow mage needs her assistance; the Lion Cub of Cintra, a young girl with shadows in her eyes and raging power in her veins and steel in her spine and still so much goodness in her heart; and a humble bard, who brings light and hope and . . .

_Love_ , Geralt thinks as he watches Ciri and Jaskier huddled close to the roaring fire, Ciri’s long hair trailing over her shoulder as she cradles Jaskier’s lute and _very slowly_ plucks out something that quickly becomes recognizable as the opening lines of _Toss A Coin to Your Witcher_ , her voice clear as bells with Jaskier taking a high harmony, his voice twining and dancing around hers, broad smiles on both of their faces as they look up as one at Geralt, the unexpected muse.

And he gets it.

That feeling that his heart is so full that it is constantly on the verge of spilling over and leaving a terrible mess all over the ancient stones of the crumbling fortress, that feeling of disbelief and awe that a man with a sharp and quick wit and the voice of a songbird and a predilection for twisting flowers into Geralt’s hair and Roach’s mane and, once, into the fur collar of Vesemir’s favorite cloak wants to spend his days at Geralt’s side, that feeling of protectiveness that edges so very close to desperation when they’re out together on a contract, that feeling of serenity that descends upon him when they’re lying enraptured and entwined in their bed, that feeling of aching tenderness when their eyes meet and the rest of the universe may as well not even exist?

_I lo_ \--

“Good,” Vesemir mutters, his voice gruff as he comes up behind Geralt and cuffs him on the back of the head. “You figured it out. Best tell him, boy.”

He leaves as quickly as he arrives, a _don’t roll your eyes at me_ thrown over his shoulder as he stalks off, Ciri’s laugh at the admonishment echoing in the hall.

Jaskier is smiling--it’s impossible not to smile when Ciri acts like the child she is instead of one who has the weight of the world on her thin shoulders--but there’s a question in his eyes, and Geralt? He’s had two decades, but even so, he needs to sit with this for a little bit. Poke around the edges and tend to it in the privacy of his own mind before he puts it out there into the world, so he mouths _later_ at Jaskier and wanders off to their bedroom, settling into a meditation in which he turns over and ponders nearly every interaction they’ve ever had, and all the resulting and accompanying _feelings_ , while perched on the edge of their bed.

It’s there that Jaskier finds him, hours later, the proximity to supper making itself known to Geralt by the growl of Jaskier’s stomach. Geralt’s eyes open slowly and he feels refreshed, composed, perfect clarity resting like a mantle of the softest furs and silks around him. Jaskier’s knee brushes against his, and he turns his head to see Jaskier sitting next to him, the waning rays of the winter sun catching the strands of lighter brown in his hair. They have seen so many sunsets together over the years, and Geralt thinks, not for the first time, that this might be when Jaskier is at his most luminous, as the day slides into night and the stars take their places in the heavens and turn on their lights.

Jaskier reaches up and curls a lock of Geralt’s hair around his finger, winding it up tight before letting it fall free. “So. Did you sort out--”

“I love you,” Geralt murmurs, and his voice is so soft it’s a wonder it’s actually heard, more of a breath, a sigh, than words truly spoken.

But spoken they are, out there in the universe now, given power, made real, no take backs, and their effect is near instantaneous, for all that it feels as though three different eternities have passed in the age that it takes for the words to travel from his lips to Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier’s eyes widen, he breathes out an _oh_ , startled but pleased, and color creeps into his cheeks, the same flush that rises high once Geralt’s taken him apart and made him see stars and put him back together again, his sword-calloused hands never more gentle than when they’re brushing hair off Jaskier’s forehead, blazing a trail that his lips are always helpless but to follow.

Two more epochs pass, empires rise and fall, in the time it takes Jaskier to settle his expression from a sweetly vulnerable smile to a delightedly saucy smirk. “Took you long enough there, didn’t it, Witcher?”

He reaches out again, his fingertips brush Geralt’s wrist, dance up to his fingers, a caress that eases into a grasp as their fingers tangle. In matters of the heart, he’s always been the braver one, the one who leads, and Geralt loves him for it, for it and for a million other things, things infinitesimal and inconsequential and things all-encompassing and awe-inspiring, he _loves him_.

“You deserve to know.” Geralt can’t hold Jaskier’s gaze any longer--he’s been so very blind for so very long, _willfully_ blind, even--and there’s no judgment there, nothing but understanding and encouragement and giddy adoration, and that’s _amazing_ , but he can’t quite bear the weight of it, so he stares very hard at the way Jaskier’s fingers fit so perfectly with his, and he’s never been more proud of winning a battle than he is when his voice, when it comes again, does not shake. “I’ve kept you waiting long enough.”

Somehow he’s not expecting the _oh_ that, this time, is tinged with desperation, and the lapful of clambering bard, graceless and all the more beautiful for it, that he suddenly has to contend with similarly catches him off guard, so much for his enhanced senses, and he’s so very glad that they’re here in the privacy of their rooms and not where there are eyes upon them, waiting for a chance to soundly mock him, although, really, even if there were, he would care not a whit because at this moment he cares for nothing but this man who has given everything to Geralt and never once asked for anything in return, save for being allowed to walk the Path beside him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier croons, the hand that’s not still grasping Geralt’s as if the universe itself will collapse if he lets go reaching up to trace a nonsense pattern along Geralt’s cheekbone, “Geralt, you lovely idiot--”

(Geralt would be offended, he really would, but Jaskier is in his lap, his weight comforting, perfect, and his touch is almost unbearably soft, and his eyes, _oh_ , his eyes are so full of devotion Geralt could drown in it, and he can handle being called an idiot by this wonderfully impossible man who one day, years ago, in an utterly forgettable but never forgotten tavern, saw an opportunity for adventure with a Witcher who hadn’t yet known what he was missing in life, and he tenaciously refused to be chased off or scared away and, in so doing, altered the course of history.)

“--your heart’s not so incomprehensible. Not to one who’s spent so long at your side. I’ve long known that it’s love, even though that mystery has eluded you until now. But worry not,” Jaskier murmurs against Geralt’s lips, their shared breaths rapid and impatient, “I’d wait a lifetime for you, you know.”

Geralt twists and presses Jaskier into the furs of their bed. “Instead of a lifetime of waiting,” he murmurs, a nip to Jaskier’s lower lip sending a shiver through Jaskier that reverberates back to him, “I’d much rather give you a lifetime of _having_.”

The smile that he kisses off Jaskier’s lips in that moment just might be the sweetest one yet in all their many years of acquaintance.


End file.
